Pangea
by AlinaLotus
Summary: Draco was just a little boy, and Parkinson was just a name. "Dark Marks don't burn nearly as much as they ought," she remarks, another drop in the bucket of her madness ringing in her ears.


**So completely AU take on events. I saw a breathtaking graphic on tumblr, and just had to write this. Warnings are language, sexual situations and maybe a bit of mind fuckery.**

**Enjoy.**

_A sombre yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all things _

_the shade of the trees fell heavily upon the water_

_and seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element with darkness..._

Draco was pathetic and everybody, especially her, knew it.

She pined for him in the beginning because that's what twelve year-old girls who had been brought up by lunatic mothers and aunts did. You fell for bloodlines and wealth and how many house elves did the Malfoy's have again?

It's all so dull and Pansy dreams of a half-blood with a diary.

**oooo**

Of course it's Tom Marvolo Riddle's diary, as she's not stupid enough to think anything else. Lovegood, a fourth year and a Ravenclaw on top of everything, hands the thing to her at breakfast one day, silvery eyes always so wide and what the bloody _hell_ is Loony smirking at anyway?

**oooo**

"It does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live." Dumbledore says, a mass of purple and Pansy can only see the glint of the candlelight off his spectacles. Her eyes are itchy but she can't sleep, hasn't slept since-

Hasn't been able to think, and Tom Riddle is what she breathes now, his initials embedded in her lungs and his fingers are inside her, pumping into her core, and she's writhing and screaming and his eyes flash scarlet-

Gryffindor scarlet and blood is pooled at her feet, and somebody, Potter she thinks, is holding her diary, her precious diary, that ridiculous scar of his black against his white skin-

**oooo**

"It's all so beautiful, don't you think?" Tom muses, his arm held out in a sweeping gesture.

The lake is black and she's freezing, and dead things, rotting things, are floating in the water. Tom is older now, but still handsome as ever, still regal and Slytherin to his core and Pansy is still captivated by him, by his cool, glittering eyes and she's pulled into him, _onto_ him, his hands possessively devouring every inch of her naked flesh, his seed so hot as it spills inside her.

Really, she should've been doing this with Draco, but all he sees is that Parkinson cow, so clingy and annoying and can you believe my twit of a mother invited her to tea?

"Pansy." His voice is neither loud nor quiet, but commanding, and she bows her head before him, her submission demanded but freely given anyway.

**oooo**

Lovegood never mentions the diary, but she can tell. She can always tell.

"Tell me," Luna's lips are radish red, dangling from pale ear lobes and Pansy wants to blink but can't, Loony is much too close but she doesn't smell half bad, really, a little like campfire and chestnuts, maybe, "does Draco wonder? About your affections, I mean."

Pansy just snorts and pushes Luna out of the way, but she sees Draco's creased forehead out of the corner of her eye, and her mother is screaming at her, her shrill voice pounding against her skull, telling her to go to him, to be coy and bat her thick lashes at him, and she is so pretty, a product of generations of perfect breeding, and how dare she waste it?

But Draco was just a little boy, and Parkinson was just a name.

**oooo**

Two years later and the diary is back in the hands of its owner, and Pansy is kept by his side, a pet of sorts, but she doesn't mind, even if she thinks Tom would've done better to keep some of his old good looks.

Still, Voldemort is Tom Riddle and Tom Riddle is Voldemort and she always knew this, and Loony, across the dark hall, knew too, and how she ever got the diary in the first place Pansy hasn't the slightest idea, but it doesn't matter anymore anyway.

Nothing does and nothing ever has and nothing ever will. Perhaps this is what Luna smirked about so long ago, a perverted secret she had to share, but just with Pansy and maybe they're the only ones that can really understand, even if what they understand is meaningless.

The ropes on her hands are a bit frayed, and really, they're not necessary, but her eyes are bloodshot and she thinks maybe the last time she slept was sometime last year, but sleep isn't for witches who have been fucked by the Dark Lord.

"How does it feel, precious?" Voldemort asks, running a long, bony finger possessively on her inner arm. She kisses him full on the mouth before answering, and when she pulls away her tongue tastes like blood, and if she had any sense left at all, any that Tom M. Riddle hadn't stolen over the years she was little more than his slave, than his whore, she'd be screaming in terror, she'd be gnashing and ripping to get away from here, from him.

"Dark marks don't burn nearly as much as they ought," she remarks, another drop in the bucket of her madness ringing in her ears.

**Do not even ask "what the fuck was that" because I have no clue. It's 2 AM, and I wrote this in about five minutes. Anyway, feedback is still greatly appreciated. Maybe YOU can tell me what the hell this is supposed to be.**

**Quote used is from The Island Of The Fay by Edgar Allen Poe.**


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